Within
by The Skans Hans Skivate
Summary: I spun his face to mine, his back in contradiction of the car and he pathetically stared up at me, voicing his surrender. I looked hard at him. His golden, silky hair was an entangled red, his untouched face bruising before my eyes. Suit disgraced, heart a mess and Gatsby was gone. "Hello, Old Sport..."
1. Chapter 1

Once yet again, the party was grand. Music boomed and people swayed and sniggered and gulped and swam and dashed and consumed and participated, the lights shining and rushing everywhere. Mr. Gatsby had outdone himself once again.

I never thought that Gatsby was the one to get himself into trouble. I knew he worked with Meyer Wolfsheim, but from what I had seen when they led me through that secret passageway to that club I never knew was underneath the local barbershop, Gatsby had a good relationship with Mr. Wolfsheim. I respected the thick man, for not everyone can fix a World Series, no matter how uncomfortable the gambler made me.

But as far as Tom had told me, Wolfsheim was as dirty as the tooth pinned to his clothing. (I shuddered at the thought of that ghastly thing he kept fastened to his tie.)

Why would anyone ever...? Never mind, I found that I really didn't care or have the stomach to know why he kept a human molar attached to him. It was so uncivilized and downright-

"-Nick?"

I was hurried back into reality as Gatsby put his hand on my shoulder, grinning at me. I noticed he tried to keep up a smile while at affairs like this. I was now disturbed that his face might freeze that way. Not that it would matter or affect anyone in a bad way. His smile was…well…more than breath taking... "Yes?"

"It doesn't seem as though you are paying attention, Old Sport. But it also seems that you are, with the way your eyes are making love to me."

I blushed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over m-"

"It's quite alright, I can assure you. I apologize."

He was always asking for forgiveness of something. I didn't understand how me staring at him would be HIS fault…"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Gatsby blinked at me. Why was he so…?

"Apologize for everything that is beyond your control."

"I'm sorry, Nick, Old sport, but I do not apologize for everything. I'm sorry I feel offended of it." CLUELESS.

I sighed. "Mr. Gatsby, you don't have to apologize for every single-"

"Mr. Gatsby, Chicago's on the phone." One of the servants interrupted.

Gatsby waved him away. "Not now." He glared as the servant left and turned back to me smiling as if he had never frowned in his life. "Now what was it you were saying?"

I stared at him blankly.

Gatsby chuckled. "Oh dear Nick, you are staring at me again. I am so sorry."

Perhaps if he got punched in the face, he would have more sense.

* * *

"Stop it Jay! I won't have it anymore!" Daisy Buchanan laughed as she playfully hit him.

"Daisy dear, how could I stop possibly?"

I watched Gatsby take her hand in his, staring deep into her eyes and I found it hard to stop staring at the two myself. Maybe I should have left the table, but something glued me.

"You make me feel young." Daisy told him.

Gatsby stared at her. "You make me feel…" And he tried to find the perfect word, everything must be perfect for this girl. He found it, and said it with such triumph and passion and yearning that the word truly did fit its meaning "…Great." Great, I repeated in my head. For that moment he saw the light as Daisy's eyes flared and lit up. In that moment he truly felt great.

The servant was back once more, taking a toll on the moment that had failed before Gatsby's eyes as Gatsby put the ring back in his pocket, of course, I didn't see this. "Mr. Gatsby, its Mr. Sméagol, he-"

"_Not now!_" Gatsby barked bitterly, a look of sheer hatred in his eyes as the look shoved the servant away.

I had never seen such annoyance in a person, and trivial anger that could start a war if tried. And we all stared, bothered by this. I looked around our table. Daisy looked of concern, I was astonished, and Jordan's eyes were slightly wide, while Gatsby tried to play it off.

If Tom were here, I'm sure he would have laughed.

* * *

The party was over, and as guests and groups and single files of people exited the palace, I stood on the top of the stairs with Gatsby, watching everyone leave. We talked, and I always found myself deeply intrigued on what the man had to say. He just has that way about him.

"Oh Old Sport, I do wish we could spend time together outside of these ridiculous parties. They get boring after a while don't you think? I've grown tired of them so long ago…"

I nodded. The parties- while most splendid and spectacular- did seem to drag on into an infinite cycle.

"Let's go up in my hydroplane, tomorrow. Oh please, Old Sport, I've become so bored there isn't much for me to do except always accept business calls-" More like NEVER accept business calls. I wondered how someone wasn't affected by this in some way. "Business!" Gatsby got excited. "Nick, have I ever told you of my story of my business? I'm terribly sorry if I haven't."

"No. I really can't say that you ever have, Mr. Gatsby."

"Please, Nick, please do call me by my first name. Call me Jay! I would very much adore hearing it from your tongue!"

"Uh, Mr. Gatsby?" I asked him, and I saw the disappointment try to bury itself from his bright eyes as I refused his request.

"Yes, Old Sport?"

"Business?"

And the gleam in his eyes shone once more. "Ah, yes, Business! So very sorry to trail from it and keep you wondering." There he goes again… "Now, business, Nick. Business is a group word. You can't just start it all alone, it is all about who you know and what you've learned, a very complicated procedure if you-"

The servant from before came back, and to me, he looked frightened. "M-Mr. Gatsby-"

"Not now, we are talking!" Gatsby snapped coldly and just like the many times before, the servant disappeared from our presence. "What was I saying, Nick? …Oh yes! Business cannot be done alone, you see. You need people on the inside and out. Business is a…"

And the rest trailed on as I listened to him, knowing good and well that Gatsby didn't know what on earth he was talking about.

* * *

"Goodnight, Old Sport. Remember that we are going up in that Hydroplane tomorrow. So come over bright and early."

"Will do, Mr. Gatsby." I told him and gave him a farewell, till tomorrow. I bid him goodnight and found my way home, successfully ending my night.

* * *

Gatsby stood on his front steps as he watched Nick leave, staring as the young man rounded the garden and disappeared behind bushes. He sighed and jumped at a voice to his right.

The servant who kept trying to get him all night stood by his side, talking in his ear. "Mr. Gatsby, please…"

He then vanished into his house, wishing that he could hide behind his friends once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Going to rest that night, after all the noise died down, I squinted the slightest as a rope of light shone in through my window. I sat up, propping myself up on my elbows to look out the glass. Tossing off my blanket, I went over to the window, trying to find the source. It wasn't so hard to do so.

The light, it came from a few floors up, the library. Why, I'd be able to identify that room anywhere. It had such a vast, colorful, and beautiful selection of books of all sizes (All real). I didn't see the point in anyone having _fake books_. Why have them in the first place? You couldn't read them, they would just sit in one place, with no purpose but to grow old and collect dust. Like a person of no value, one that was in attendance but no one really cared why or how.

Like Gatsby, I hated to admit. Everyone came to his parties, made fools of themselves every weekend at his random house, knew the main parts of his mansion by heart, and absolutely had not a clue of who was responsible for it all. Gatsby was there, he was present, but no one gave so much as a _damn_.

I never thought that someone could have such an impression on anyone or on me for that matter. But after all, first impressions were everything, this being especially educated to me by my neighbor, who really only made an impression on me and me alone. He had a convinced interest and reliance in me that I wanted to a great extent to understand from him.

Gatsby… I've known the man for a while now, just about saw him every day and was in his company far too often…

_Stay, please Nick, this dock…I need- Come stare at the light with me._

He sounded deserted that day, almost inadequate of something more…something heartfelt that I couldn't really provide him while truly meaning it.

We were on good terms; in fact we were fairly close. We shared cigars and ale; I've even gone as far as dismissing myself of my stomach in his toilet. That party being a little embarrassing for myself, entirely my fault for it.

He's offered me counsel, one time it happened to be for me to stop drinking so heavily. One request I ignored from everyone that said it, but when he said it, it was different. He said it with distraction and I thought I saw remembrance in his eyes.

_You're killing yourself, Old Sport. I'd never be able to find another quite like you; I wouldn't think that I'd find myself trying to._

We were friends, yes, most unquestionably. He liked to invite me on his hydroplane most of all, I think. So far I've been on it about four times, and the fifth would be tomorrow, taking to account his requests of me for tomorrow morning. _Bright and early, Old Sport, remember._

So I looked up to his tower, the room where the light was shining from. The one that gave me slight disturbance.

I wasn't surprised to find Gatsby standing in front of the window, and I smiled, hoping he'd turn and look down upon me, like some all-powerful being staring down gracefully upon some commoner peasant.

But when he turned around, there was no grace or refinement. There was _hate _in Jay's eyes, regret, abhorrence, misery and offense. His refuse looked more unruly and uncivilized than it had been at the previous party. He rotated from a clean shave every once in a while and I predicted that it was one of those intervals between levelness.

Tomorrow there would be a bash, and I of course would be attending along with Ms. Baker, Daisy, and, perchance Tom. I hoped he wouldn't be so foolish as to attend, the scandal needed all the help it could get in being ignored. Tom wasn't that stupid, he probably already knew about it. Well, then I still hoped he wouldn't come. There was no way I could fight the man off long enough for Jay to either run or call for help from servants. It's not that I don't think Mr. Gatsby couldn't defend himself, I'd just feel that it'd be my job to keep Mr. Buchanan from causing a physical row in Gatsby's house. My own being just next door in the meantime, and rows had the ability to travel.

I watched Gatsby speak into his telephone, and at first he was patient. Then the man grew more agitated, he began to dangerously pace, tugging on the telephone cord when it didn't meet his requirements of length. I feared that it would snap and he'd throw it through the window at such anger I was witnessing.

He began to talk louder, more vigorously, so violently and demanding. I could not read his lips, his words were being thrown out, scattered and thrown together in the shape of daggers.

I wondered who he was speaking to, and perhaps as an afterthought what they had done or said to get him so-

I watched him end the assault by hanging up the receiver, or he more likely banged it down with as much force to break it to pieces. He stood there, for moments he stood there, just breathing. Just waiting and he closed his eyes. I watched him sigh and run his hands through his dirty blonde hair to smooth it, but it did not help in the least. His strands were wild and unkempt, so out of place. Much like he was in his façade.

Gatsby looked lost as he opened his eyes again, perhaps to find himself in the mess. He couldn't be found, so he called a servant to get him a drink and I saw a black sleeve reach to hand the glass to him. He nodded them thanks and watched them leave, and I watched his lips curl around the glass as he drank from it.

I have never known Jay to be a hard drinker, he seemed so- …So cool and collect, and I never thought that he-

But he drank the contents, and quickly then he grabbed a bottle and poured himself another, imploring that one as well. He poured again, and I felt my own head spin. But he didn't drink this one. He started to, and thought again. Then he lifted the glass to his forehead and let it stay there, his shoulders dropping apparently calming from this.

I just stood there viewing his every movement, gazing with so much awareness. Such interest I have never found in a person before.

He placed his hand on the windowsill and absorbed the third glass, keeping it in his hand he leaned his forearm against the window. I peered in closer as he rested his head against his arm, his gaze staring over the roof of my house and he slowly turned his head to something else.

I turned as well and hence I winced.

The light.

He was staring at the light, the green light across the Sound. I looked back up to him and his features dropped, the crinkles around his mouth twitching and quivering with sadness and I knew that he was upset.

I eased the window open to a crack. He shouldn't have to weather this alone. My intents were to open the window and call up to him but something stopped me in my tracks.

A roar escaped him, and I jumped because I really heard it, followed by the distant sound of the glass that was previously in his hand shattering as it hit something else within the library.

I nearly fell, catching myself on my window and by my hand clutching the curtains. I cursed when his figure flinched and I knew that he heard or at least saw a glimpse of the disruption. I quickly hid behind the wall next to my window. There was a silence. Dead silence.

A sudden fear went through me, a fear that the anger he had shown would at one point in time be directed upon me. And that was enough to distort any judgment. I waited before using the presence of the curtain to mask another peak out my bedroom window.

Gatsby searched, staring directly down to my little cottage shack. I thanked heavens that the curtain was hiding me behind it and that I could see through the tiny pores of fabric. He looked and gazed down into my house, and for a second unintentionally into my eyes. My breath hitched and stilled. I was an idiot. If I could see through these flimsy drapes then what made me think that he couldn't?

But he didn't. He didn't spot anything, not even a hint that I had been standing plainly there not a few moments ago watching him.

So he saw nothing amiss, but with a sense of insecurity he went away from the window. Like that, he disappeared from it and the light shut out and I was alone in staring.

I stayed there ogling at nothing, inspecting but thinking about these events in my mind. Questions and exclamations running through my head. I questioned. I now wished that I had undeniably called up to him. At least then I would know something else other than what I was left with.

He would have joked off what he was doing with a reassuring smile or waved down at me to let me know that he was alright, lying of course but at least he would have given me a response to seeing what I had. I wanted to know. He just made me want to know everything there was about him. I wanted him dissected and spread out on a scale before my eyes. I wanted to know what Gatsby _meant_.

Gatsby was a mystery, and mysteries needed time to unravel. So I retracted from my spying glass and back to my bed simultaneously as the very mystery man wrapped himself tighter in his own coverings, hoping to never be unfolded by my eyes or anyone else's.


End file.
